


Café Con Leche

by owlettica



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Flip Fuck, Flirting, Hand Jobs, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, a smidgie wee bit of Spanish, some naughty words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 22:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20646731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlettica/pseuds/owlettica
Summary: Hank and Cristobal have a small misunderstanding that takes a surprising turn.______This fic takes place between seasons 1 and 2 of Barry but don't worry: no spoilers.I am in no way associated with Barry or HBO. I’m just a sick fan writing what I’d love to see on the show. Please don’t sue me. I haven’t any money.





	Café Con Leche

—h—

Hank hums to himself as he arranges his throw pillows, making sure to get just the right balance of solid bold colors, simple and busy prints against his cheery bed linens. He takes a step back to consider his work.

_Perfect._

He stretches a broad smile at how everything seems to be falling into place. It’s all he’s ever wanted: being a part of something greater, a partnership. His men and Cristobal’s have finally become a real team. Things couldn’t be better. Hank wistfully sighs.

_Cristobal._

Cristobal Sifuentes is just super great: a total guru mentsch of highest order. Hank can’t help but watch in awe at how the man breaks down those PowerPoint slides during his presentations, convincing everyone they can get shit done and rule the world—and the way he says it with that blinding smile?

_“We are more powerful together.”_

Hank loves when the Bolivian laces his strong, capable fingers and holds them together, pausing for dramatic effect until the room erupts into applause. 

Then there’s his deep, resonant voice with just a hint of something smoky—just a little rasp and that rapid-fire Spanish when he swaggers around the safe house in those tight white pants and signature undershirt beneath his open guayabera. Henry just loves how the white knit stretches across those dancing pecs… and how his gold chain and crucifix looks against that honey-beige chest and black curls. It sets his teeth on edge. 

_“Hank?”_

The Chechen startles at the sound of his name. He turns, smiles and sighs at the sight of the man himself, Cristobal Sifuentes:

Crime boss. Friend. Teammate. _Partner._

As Sifuentes approaches, it takes Hank a moment to realize he’s staring at the man’s chest and his fingers are just itching to reach for it. He looks up to meet Cristobal’s eyes, just as dark as his own. Similar but different. Knowing. _Exotic._

“Quieres crema for your café?” He arches a brow and smiles. “Azucar?”

_He’s speaking Spanish._

Hank’s knees go a little weak.

When the darker man smiles, Hank gets distracted again. His eyes trail down to that mouth with gleaming white teeth and the robust moustache he’d just love to feel tickling his lips or his neck… that black hair he’d just _love_ to tangle his fingers into. Henry can feel the heat rising in his face and subtly gathering between his legs, eliciting a twinge of that sweet, _delicious_ ache. 

When Hank’s peripheral vision finally kicks in, he can see Cristobal’s holding up their fox and raccoon mugs in either hand, playfully wiggling them. The Chechen’s brain finally begins functioning again.

_Mugs. Coffee. Right. But his smile… **Wait**._

Henry squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, forcing himself to concentrate.

_Coffee. He’s asking if you want cream and sugar. Answer him!_

“Oh, uh…” 

Before Hank’s partner began fixing him coffee, he never drank much of it—much less the way Cristobal likes it: with cream and sugar. Henry’s always been more of a tea drinker. 

_But the way he makes it is **so good**._

Henry subconsciously bites his lower lip at the thought but he’s been cutting back on carbs, avoiding babka and trying to lay off the dairy and sugar. It’s not that he’s bothered by a snug fit, but his yellow shorts with the blue piping have been riding higher in the back when they play volleyball. They’re feeling a little tight. Restrictive.

He absently shakes his head and clears his throat, working hard to recall Cristobal’s words. 

_What did he just say again?_

But that’s the challenge isn’t it? Cristobal is so distracting and makes him a little nervous—but not the way Barry does. Barry is total Marine badass of the highest order: just beyond reach, closed off and abrupt. Distant. _Hard._

Barry Berkman has this way of making him just a little anxious. He’s a man of few words and has this ever-present, low-level danger just roiling beneath the surface—like a powder keg just waiting to go off. It makes Henry fidget and nudges him to try harder to exude confidence, to… _appease_ Barry. To make Barry _notice_ him. To _like_ him. 

But not Cristobal. 

Cristobal Sifuentes is something entirely different. Unlike Barry, who barely acknowledges his existence, Cristobal stares at him like he’s the only thing that exists. The only thing that matters. 

Henry can’t get over how someone so smart, funny and capable… someone with a warm, sun-kissed complexion and a blinding smile that makes his stomach flutter and his breath catch in his throat actually _listens_ to him. He gazes down at Cristobal attentively regarding him with a glint of something he can’t quite place. It makes Hank swoon a little. 

Henry’s lips part and everything slows down the moment the man moves in closer. It finally dawns on him that he’s been holding his breath but damn it if Cristobal Sifuentes isn’t just so much man in such a small, concentrated package—kind of like wasabi but… _Bolivian._

Hank suddenly gets a craving for some Yoshinoya beef bowl.

—c—

Cristobal stands in the doorway of Hank’s bedroom, grinning all the while he watches the man meticulously puff, arrange and smooth his throw pillows on his freshly-made bed. 

It’s charming and terribly endearing—Henry’s constant desire to perfect the details of anything: repackaging and shipping stolen or smuggled merchandise or balancing the room with various textures, complimenting his cheery bed linens with _just_ the right splashes of color—not unlike how he garnishes meals and drinks. It’s all about presentation. He grins at the boyish way Hank delights when the guys comment on the tiny details he pains in perfecting.

_“It **is** nice, isn’t it?”_

Sifuentes’ lips appreciatively part when Hank leans over and smooths the surface of his bed, zeroing in on the man’s flexing triceps, rippling quads and hamstrings. The only thing that could possibly improve this sight would be if Hank was in those tight short shorts he wears during volleyball—or even better: nothing at all. The Bolivian’s body twitches at the subtle pulse in his dick at the mere thought of it.

_¡Este hombre y su culo lindo!_

Cristobal’s regularly distracted by Hank’s taut and muscular legs. What he wouldn’t give to lick a long stripe up the back of them, all the way up to that tight ass he’d love to paw and take a bite out of. 

Perhaps _this_ little visit will be enough to elicit that lopsided grin he finds utterly beguiling. Cristobal’s already biting his lower lip, anticipating the tiny gap between Henry’s teeth on the left side of his mouth.

He imagines sticking the tip of his tongue in that groove and… 

The Bolivian smirks while Hank tilts his head and holds his chin, carefully appraising his work. He imagines tackling the man onto his perfectly-made bed, undoing all his hard work with their crashing bodies… but mostly undoing the man himself, bit by lovely bit, piece by delicious piece, until he’s moaning and bucking beneath him. The dull throb between his legs and his body’s soft shudder brings Cristobal back, suddenly remembering his excuse for standing in the Chechen’s doorway. 

“Hank. Quieres crema for your café?” He arches a brow. “Azucar?”

Hank barely seems to register his offer of coffee but Cristobal doesn’t care. There’s something—okay many things terribly endearing about the man. Like that creeping flush on his cheeks and ears and those dimples.

—h—

_“Hank?”_

The man startles a little with the sound of his name, finally remembering Cristobal’s offer.

_But the way he makes your coffee is just so…. _

Henry nervously chews his lower lip.

_He’s looking at you. **Say something.**_

“Uh. Yeah—uh, no. Yeah. Definitely, no.” 

Hank smooths down the front of his gauzy, linen shirt with subtle splashes of color and shifts a little while his other hand nervously rubs the back of his neck. Cristobal’s face blanks with surprise when Hank demures. The Bolivian apologizes, a little disappointed.

“I’m sorry. I thought you liked how I’ve been making your coffee. Should I make you some tea instead?”

Hank blinks, suddenly concerned he inadvertently hurt Cristobal’s feelings. He steps forward, apologetically waving his hands before the troubled man.

“I _do_. Very much. It’s great. _Super_ great. It’s just that…” 

The pale man nervously fingers the seam of his pants between his index and thumb, subtly shifting and leaning in just a little, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. He takes a quick glance out into the hallway in case any of the guys are milling around.

“I think I need to cut back on the sugar. My pants. They are getting…” Hank shifts a little and tugs down the back of his gauzy, short-sleeved linen shirt, leaning in again. “_Tighter_.” 

Cristobal raises a brow and grins at Hank’s nervous fingers. He returns the fidgeting man’s gaze.

“I don’t know about that.” The darker man moves his raccoon mug to his other hand, placing it alongside Hank’s fox mug, taking special care to keep them from clanking together. He takes a step closer and reaches for Henry’s forearm. 

“I think your pants are just _fine_. They are… _very flattering_ on you, Enrique.”

Henry loves how his name seems to sound so much better in Spanish… or maybe it’s just the way _Cristobal_ says it in Spanish: the way his dreamy dark eyes narrow just a little when he rolls that ‘r’… and his lips part with the final syllable, his chin just barely jutting forward and pushing it out like a soft sigh—like a cross between a prayer and something sinful, _carnal_. It makes Hank a little dizzy, _drunk_. Cristobal’s proximity and the sensation of the man’s touch floods his body with heat.

”I… I don’t know. I might need to do some more cardio—.”

Cristobal’s grip grows tighter and he pulls the man forward, cutting him off.

“Chht! _Cállate_, Hank.” 

When Henry blinks with surprise, Cristobal instantly releases him. He reassuringly strokes the smooth, pale arm, apologetically shaking his head. He lowers his voice and softens his tone. 

“Perdóname, Hank. That was… _rude_. I didn’t mean to be impolite. Lo siento.” 

Cristobal moves in a step closer and places his fingers on Hank’s chest, tenting them.

“It’s just that… sometimes you are so…” Cristobal spreads his fingers so that his hand rests flat against the man’s chest. He subtly rubs it with reassurance and tilts his head for emphasis. “_Dismissive_ of yourself.” 

Cristobal’s touch sets Hank’s body alight. He now feels the rise and fall of his chest growing faster and more pronounced. He tries to speak but his words catch in his throat at the sight of Cristobal’s hand, so dark against the subtle, watercolor pattern of his pale, linen shirt and so warm against his chest and wildly beating heart. He shakes his head with his partner’s gentle scolding.

“I think someone needs to reread The Four Agreements. What does Ruiz say about one’s word?”

Hank struggles to remember and not stare at that distracting, moustached mouth. He nervously chews his lower lip with concentration before snapping his fingers.

“B-Be _impeccable_.”

The Bolivian feels his breaths coming faster with the man’s chest beneath his fingers, just one layer separating him from that creamy, smooth skin, those pecs and abs. As he rubs more firmly, he glances at the man’s tiny, dark peaks rising beneath the light linen weave. He steps closer and peers up into Henry’s lidded eyes.

“Exactly. Do not judge yourself. You must speak with _integrity_. _Think_ about what you’re saying _before_ you say it.”

Hank can’t _stand_ it anymore. Cristobal is now _so_ close, he can _smell_ him. Spicy. Exotic. _Masculine_. And not just his cologne but _him:_ the intoxicating scent that makes Henry’s teeth grit. The scent that makes him twitch. The scent that makes his body ache. The scent that keeps him up at night, imagining what Cristobal _really_ smells like between his legs or when he’s fucking and—.

Before Hank realizes it, his own quiet whimper alerts him to the fact he just captured Cristobal's lips with his mouth, soon followed by the dawning horror Cristobal’s not reacting. His lips aren’t moving. Henry opens his eyes and looks into his partner’s: blinking with surprise.

_Oh shit._

Henry startles, dismayed at his liberty. He instantly pulls away, eyes wide and hands raised with apology. 

_“Oh **fuck** me. Cristobal….” _

Hank helplessly watches his partner’s shaking head and confused blinking. To make matters worse, Cristobal says nothing. Henry watches in chagrin as his partner quickly turns and strides for the door with their mugs. He profusely apologizes to the retreating man’s back, absolutely convinced that _this_ will be the thing that finally does him in: 

_Not_ Barry shooting him.   
_Not_ the prison where he did time.  
_Not_ having the wrong temperament for his profession.  
_Not_ growing up gay in possibly one of the worst places to grow up gay.  


But being killed off _or worse_ by Cristobal. 

Hank feels the heat on his face when his partner closes the bedroom door and clicks the deadbolt locked. Sifuentes sets down their mugs on a nearby table, pops his neck and squares his jaw. He quickly removes his guayabera, tossing it aside before charging toward him. Henry’s apology comes even faster, bordering on pleading. He tightly shakes his head all the while he apologizes. 

“My bad. I-I-I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t know what I was….”

Henry braces himself for what’s coming. It isn’t the first time he’s been beaten for being a ‘sodomite’. A _faggot_. He’s been in his share of fights and knows how to defend himself. It isn’t what he likes, but he’ll do it if he must—if he has to survive. It was just one of the reasons he was so fucking thrilled to finally get to L.A. It was always his dream to get here. To _live_ someplace better. To _be_ someone better. To _have_ everything he’s ever wanted. To be _happy_. To _belong_. To find a _partner_.

That’s what makes all this so fucking heartbreaking: the thought he not only fucked his partnership with Cristobal but the thought of seeing the disgust and hatred in the man’s eyes. It keeps Hank from going on the offensive. He slumps his shoulders in defeat. He closes his eyes, awaiting the impact once the man rears back both arms and shoves him so hard he stumbles and falls back onto his freshly-made bed. 

Hank feels his bed shift as Cristobal clambers atop it. The man’s now straddling and looming above him. The Chechen braces himself for the inevitable blow, but it doesn’t land. He circumspectly opens his eyes and his heart sinks when his partner rotates his arm upward. However, to his surprise, Cristobal reaches behind his back and pulls his undershirt over his head, tossing it aside and baring his dark, toned chest. 

Hank can’t quite place the flushed and impatient look on Cristobal’s face, but it isn’t anger or disgust. It takes him a moment to register the man’s mumbling—low, throaty and guttural as he lowers himself so close he can feel the hot puffs of breath on his face.

“Enrique, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

And then he feels it: Cristobal’s lips finally answer and it’s fucking electric. It goes right to his cock, propelling him forward so his hips meet Cristobal’s, moaning the moment he discovers just how hot and hard his partner is. He groans at the urgent, probing tongue wrestling his and exploring every bit of his mouth, teasing at its roof and behind his teeth, sucking a little as he grinds against him. 

—c—

Cristobal peers down at the dark, searching eyes beneath him and god if his dick isn’t already wet and at the ready. He’s absolutely drunk on Henry’s body beneath him and those powerful legs spreading to accept more of him.

He’s half-crazed by the time Henry’s forearms slide upward, reaching behind his back, pulling him closer and drawing him fast. He groans into Hank’s mouth the moment their bodies meet and those hands sweep down his back, thumbs trailing the definition of his lats and finally reaching to take his ass in both hands. 

Sifuentes can’t stand the barrier of Hank’s shirt anymore. He abruptly pulls away to quickly undress the man with those dreamy, expectant eyes, that slackened jawed and those bruised, parted lips. He takes the white linen plackets and rips them apart, exposing that pale chest with dark nipples and an occasional dark freckle—like the inverse of constellations in an inky dark sky and just as lovely. 

He dives to a nipple and teases the puckered flesh between his fingers, grinning with Hank’s quiet gasp and jerking hips. Cristobal replaces the fingers of one hand with his mouth and reaches between Hank’s legs to palm him, dragging the heel of his hand against the swelling rigidity. The sound it draws from his partner is almost enough to make him cream himself. 

In little time, Hank’s fingers are slipping beneath the front of his waistbands. Cristobal stutters when those fingerpads alight upon his wet and swollen dick. His body involuntary thrusts into the man’s searching hand only to realize he won’t last if he doesn’t stop now. It takes everything in him to grab Henry’s wrist to stop him. He shakes his head and replies, his voice hoarse.

“_No_, Hank. _You_ first.”

The Chechen’s loud groan is better than any verbal reply the Bolivian could ever hope for. He shudders as he pulls Henry’s impatient fingers from his pants and feels the cool slick left behind on his boxers. He slides down, flicking his tongue all along those quivering abdominals and ribcage as he hastily unfastens and unzips those bone white trousers, enabling him to reach inside and take his partner in hand. 

“Ay, por Dios santo!”

And it is _beautiful_, isn’t it? Henry’s cock. Thick, pink, velutinous and (to his surprise)… _cut_. Cristobal grunts the moment he grasps Hank’s girth and his hips pitch forward. Sifuentes takes the first long, decadent pull and the way Hank groans and thrusts goes straight to his dick. He begins working the man in earnest, licking his lips as he watches Hank shamelessly thrust into his hand. The Bolivian's _dying_ to take the man's cock in his mouth, swollen, pulsing and begging to be sucked. It isn't long before Cristobal claws down his partner’s waistbands and swallows him down. 

—h—

Hank presses his head and heels into his bed, wantonly chasing the heat of Cristobal’s enthusiastic mouth. He closes his eyes and grabs at his comforter when the darker man brusquely slides off the bed, tugs at his shoes and flings them aside before reaching to yank down his trousers and short boxer briefs. The pale man’s cock falls heavy against his abdomen, thick and laden with desire. He groans in response to how wet he is.

The Chechen raises his head to see, beyond the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his partner standing at the foot of his bed, hastily unfastening his white denim pants and shoving them downward to impatiently kick aside. When Cristobal finally stands it’s even better than Hank imagined: that dark, delectable cock proudly rising from a nest of raven black hair, standing against that swarthy skin he has been _dying_ to touch from the moment he first laid eyes on it. 

In little time, Cristobal’s climbing over Henry and tugging his arm, urging the man onto his stomach and straddling his haunches. Hank’s body bucks when the backs of his partner’s thighs meet his. He lifts his ass in search of the smaller man’s prodding length and he finds it: heavy, warm and urgent, nudging against him, teasing up and down the cleft of his quivering buttocks. 

Sifuentes rises and places his hands on either side of Hank’s shoulders, soon lowering himself so that their bodies are flush. The hot breath in pale man’s ear and the tongue teasing the shell of it draws a ragged moan from him. 

Henry grinds into the bed once his partner’s mouth maps his shoulder and glides downward to trace the spine of his shoulder blade with his tongue. He gasps and trembles at the faint, thin trail Cristobal leaves along his thighs and ass—finally teasing at his taint. Henry juts out his ass, unabashedly offering himself, only to be taken by surprise by a swift, stinging blow to it. Hank’s body blooms with heat. He gasps and breaks out into a glistening sheen of sweat.

The pale man groans at the firm hand kneading his stinging haunches, soon gasping in response to the subtle tickle of his partner’s moustache and the warm, flat tongue licking at them. Just as Hank’s about to choke out Cristobal’s name, he sputters at a second blow, soon followed by strong, capable fingers slowly strumming at the hot, rising flesh of his ass. The next thing Hank knows, he’s reeling from the sensation of the man’s tongue teasing his taint and the hot breaths he can feel _right there_. 

The Chechen raises his ass and claws his comforter to accommodate the hand he feels reaching between his legs. His hips pitch forward to thrust into it, coaxed onward by the guttural and barely audible voice murmuring at his ass. Cristobal’s words are indiscernible but they make Hank’s desire gather and swell. 

Henry’s muscles grow increasingly taut as Cristobal’s hand grows slicker. Hank shakes his head and forces himself to stop, lifting himself from the bed and rolling over to a side. He looks down and groans at the handsome, flushed face looking back at him before that lovely mouth takes him a second time and it is exquisite: sublime in its urgency and thrilling with the subtle scrape of teeth. Before long, Henry’s thighs begin quivering and his toes curl. He shakes his head and grabs at his partner’s wrist, urging him upward.

The darker man reluctantly obliges his partner, relinquishing the man’s heavy cock with a soft smack. Hank pulls Cristobal upward and coaxes him even higher as he slithers down his now wrecked bed to finally take his partner’s aching breadth in hand: dark, rich and thick. Before Hank realizes it, he’s groaning at the man’s salt, licking his luscious tip and diving to swallow down every inch. He slowly inhales Cristobal’s musk as he nudges his nose into the inky, dark hair, moaning and sucking and bobbing and humming with enthusiasm when those thrusting hips and flexing abdominals begin losing control. Just as Hank senses his partner’s about to burst, he’s surprised to feel him pulling away. 

Hank shakes his head and blinks in disbelief when Cristobal rises with a wicked grin and pushes him back onto the bed. The Chechen watches on, enraptured as the Bolivian tents over him and he feels the man reaching for his aching tip. Cristobal seductively grins as he guides it between his legs, teasing at the taut swelter of his ass and damn it to hell if Hank isn’t already gasping and shuddering with anticipation.

“Oh shit.”

Hank’s thighs twitch as his partner painstakingly lowers himself onto him, inch by delicious inch. Once the man’s fully sheathed, Henry glides his palms up those dark thighs and draws up his feet so that his knees frame Cristobal’s body. The pale man peers up at the comely face gazing down at him, utterly beguiled by their contrasting skin tones. He absently gasps.

“Cristobal....”

Sifuentes tightens his hands around Hank’s wrists and looks him square in the eye, lowering his voice to a growl.

“Métemelo. _Duro,_ Enrique.”

Hank clamps down on the man’s ass and his hips pitch upward, groaning as his partner rides him with reckless abandon, the man’s cock bouncing with every thrust. Henry’s hips grow impatient. Urgent. _Frenzied._ He peers up into the darker man’s unfocused eyes and open mouth. He feels himself slipping. The muscles in his thighs grow increasingly taut. Hank’s thrusts grow frantic and his toes begin curling. That’s when he hears it.

_“Dame lo, papi.”_

Hank gushes with a long, protracted thrust and a strangled groan, shuddering and quaking until he pumps himself empty. After he stills, his body twitches when Sifuentes rises off him. The Chechen sighs and reaches for the gorgeous face now lowering to capture his lips. After a long, deep kiss, Henry shakes his head and softly blinks as he drags a hand down his partner’s chest, descending in search of the man’s neglected cock. 

“What about you?”

The smile Cristobal stretches makes Hank’s stomach flutter. Henry lazily watches his partner descend his body. The Bolivian takes his own fingers into his mouth before slipping them out. Hank groans when the man’s hand glides beneath his taut balls and teases at his ass before slowly slipping in, decadently fingering him and stirring until he alights upon _that_ spot. Hank claws at his comforter as Cristobal impishly teases him.

“¿Te gusta, Hank?”

The Chechen closes his eyes and absently nods, his body following and meeting the man’s fingers. His answer spills forth without thought.

“Yes.”

Hank loses himself in his partner’s skilled digits, eventually feeling the bed shift. Cristobal’s hand reaches beneath his thigh to draw his leg upward. He gasps when Sifuentes removes his fingers to line himself up, groaning when the man teases his ass with his delicious girth. Thick. Hot. Wet. _Hard._

Henry scarcely recognizes the sound he makes as he stretches to accommodate Cristobal. He melts into the long, slow drag filling him—groaning the moment his partner’s fully seated inside. Hank lifts his other leg for Sifuenetes’ benefit, eagerly nodding him on.

“_Do_ it.”

Cristobal groans and lifts Hank’s muscular legs upward, shrugging his shoulders beneath them. He takes hold of his partner’s shins for leverage, slowly pulling out before pushing himself back in, relishing in the exquisite drag of the man’s tight swelter. In little time, he’s grunting and slamming into Henry, enraptured by the sound of his hips slapping against that beautiful, pale ass and Hank’s impassioned moans. Cristobal dreamily gazes down at the wrecked man below him.

“Enrique…”

Cristobal’s hips begin pitching wildly before his strangled cry announces his orgasm. 

"¡Ay, Díos mío!”

The darker man’s hips eventually grind to a halt after riding out his pleasure. Once his body finally settles, he shakes his head and grins, puffing out a loud, satisfied sigh. Cristobal turns his head to kiss one of Hank’s shins, before lowering them on either side of him. Sifuentes gingerly pulls out and crawls over his partner. He lowers his mouth and nudges those beautifully swollen lips apart, moaning as he slips his tongue inside the man’s mouth. The darker man finally pulls back, shakes his head and stupidly grins.

“Hank, you are… ¿Como se dice? A _very_ satisfying lover.” 

Henry feels the heat on his face and can’t seem to stop smiling at the man beaming down at him. He shakes his head and bites his lower lip. 

“Thank you.” He can’t seem to stop blinking, suddenly feeling bashful. “So are you.”

Just as the men’s mouths begin moving towards one another, they both startle at a sudden knock on the door, followed by Akhmal’s gruff voice.

“Hank. You tell me to tell you to call Barry. Don’t forget.”

Henry tentatively answers back.

“Uh… Yah, bro. Okay.”

After Akhmal’s footfalls quietly fade, Cristobal affectionately strokes Hank’s face.

“¿Quien es Barry?”

Hank looks back at the handsome man grinning back at him and forgets himself. 

“Who?”

_“Barry.”_

The Chechen finally nods with remembrance.

“Oh. Barry? He’s…” Henry sighs back at the dark eyes twinkling back at him and absently shakes his head. “He’s… just a friend.”

Cristobal takes Hank’s chin and drags a thumb across those thick, parted lips.

“So… nobody I need to worry about?”

Hank slowly blinks and smiles.

“No. Not one bit.”

Cristobal leans forward and kisses him again.

“Good. You want me to fix you some tea?”

Henry puffs out a soft snort and grins. He shakes his head and tries practicing what he has learned from listening to Cristobal. He concentrates on his words, slowly and deliberately annunciating.

“No gracias. Café con leche… y azucar.” He raises a finger and smiles with self-satisfaction. “Por favor.”

Cristobal’s astonished smile is a huge payoff. The Bolivian puffs with surprise and answers with earnestness. 

“Coming right up.”

Cristobal pecks his lips before rising from the bed to gather his clothes. Henry rolls to one side, appreciatively watching his partner dress himself and gather their mugs before reaching for the deadbolt. The man glances back and winks, taking care when he opens the door and slips outside. Hank falls back, completely unfazed by his wrecked bed and felled throw pillows, his grin impossibly wide.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, this is my first non-Gotham fic so I hope it didn’t suck (at least in a _bad_ way). Honestly, if it weren’t for Anthony Carrigan being the cutest phuccing thing _ever_ and basically being my muse, I wouldn’t feel so compelled to write anything. So, I’ll just blame him and refuse to accept responsibility for any of this. *nods* Yeah, that sounds good. Nah, just kidding. It’s totally all my fault. 
> 
> Okay but fo’ realzies, I am an unapologetic AC fan. As a queer latina I cannot begin to tell you how phuccing thrilled I was by the CristoNoHo/NoHoBal _(Someone? Anyone?)_ deliciousness in 2x08, especially after Hank was disregarded and disrespected (and all the other disses) by Barry. Oh—and for all y'all who had your closed captioning on, I guaran-DAMB-tee you Cristobal said, “Te amo” —_not_ “te llamo” but ANYWAY! (Sorry? Did I just spit? My bad.)
> 
> That sh!t was so f*cking great—_especially_ after Gotham’s Victor Zsasz made that comment in 5x04 about letting Detective Carlos Alvarez strip search him because “he’s handsome”. Thank you, Anthony, for ad-libbing that line and for your characters’ appreciation of the chorizo! :3 Nnnng! 
> 
> ______
> 
> Alright, alright, alright. All joking aside, this sh!t was not beta read. You’re my beta readers. See anything requiring my attention? Please accept my apologies and lemme know so I can fix it—especially my Spanish. I not-so-jokingly refer to myself as Mexi-CAN’T. My Spanish sucks (and not in the sexy way). Please do not use it as a reference. Ask someone who knows. So, help out a "coconut", okay?
> 
> Last but not least, to those of you who made it to the end of this thing: thank you for reading and/or leaving kudos—and special thanks to all y’all who took the time to comment on my self-indulgent smut. Comments give me LIFE! Peace, y’all!


End file.
